


Foresight

by jiokra



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Cold Weather, Communication, Forgiveness, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, Loyalty, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Canon, Regret, Sharing a Bed, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-08-27 16:04:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8407957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jiokra/pseuds/jiokra
Summary: Feeling guilty for betraying Marcus's trust while with the Seal People, Esca atones by saving Marcus's life, keeping him warm, and denying his own feelings.





	

### I

Boundless, frigid, the fog was a curtain of impenetrable grey. Marcus shuddered beneath Esca’s grasp. The sight of his leg’s bleeding wound in Esca’s memory was the only stark light in these fields of tan and grey. Every slip and shudder from Marcus aggravated Esca’s resolve. He tightened his hold on Marcus, murmuring encouragements and projections for the estimated distance to a goal location both knew did not exist. He spoke in soft tones, yet in an angry, wretched inner voice, he thought, _Why hadn’t he told me the wound had opened?_

The answer was snapped back at him in equal agitation, _Perhaps offering the Seal Prince to slit his throat didn’t help._

Whenever Marcus slipped or choked down a whimper of pain, the battle of thoughts cycled, and it would have cycled endlessly had Esca not snapped out of it due to the fear of the painted warriors catching up. 

Soon the fog got to Marcus, and the tremors which rocketed through Marcus threatened to trip Esca. Marcus halted, and all the muscle working against Esca had him stop dead. Esca struggled to keep them both upright and still over the grassy mud, ears filled with a noise akin to pattering rain. 

“We can’t go on like this,” said Marcus, inflection flat. 

Memories from the Seal People’s village barraged Esca, and each more poignant, vivid than the last, all cast in darker shadows as Marcus’s bleeding weight had them halted on the hill. Esca swallowed down an ache in his throat. Curling fingers cramped from the cold around Marcus’s side and tugging him closer, Esca said, “There’s a river up ahead. It ought to have alcoves.” 

And so they went. 

As they crested a new hill, Marcus fell, boots slipping on the rain slick boulders. When he collapsed, his chest beat against Esca’s ribcage, his full weight surrendered to Esca and close to knocking the wind out of both men. Esca kept thinking about the labyrinthine path he’d kept hidden from Marcus once they crossed the wall, the lies and deceit with the Seal People, the fear Marcus must have felt. And now he surrendered himself to Esca, his life clutched in Esca’s hands. It was a gift Esca both wanted and did not want, and one he did not deserve. 

A tree with an army of branches, the leaves so thick and plentiful, cut through the rain. Esca could see the cliff side leading down to the river. He willed his heartbeat to settle, then dragged both Marcus and himself toward the ledge. 

* * *

Despite Esca’s firm hold and guidance, Marcus slipped on the muddy riverbanks and plunged into the frigid waters with the grace of someone without Marcus’s normal physical prowess. Esca jumped into the water, grabbing fistfuls of Marcus’s tunic, and was glad for the grip because they went not five paces forward before the river’s depth plunged, their feet standing on nothing, currents sweeping them away.

Esca let the waters carry them, waiting for the floor to rise up, and all he could think about was how ardently he desired to see Marcus on a chariot beside him, one of those obscene centurion helmets with a half moon of red rustling overhead. He did not care how Roman Marcus looked in the vision, because at least in the vision Marcus was warm and alive and smiling at Esca. 

When his boots touched the river’s floor, Esca felt a tightness in his chest loosen. Soon the alcoves emerged ahead, the concave mud walls with roots reaching out of the earth. They needed to keep to the bank, catch their breaths in shelter from the rain. The humor of escaping the rain while the river water jostled them was not lost on Esca, but he was too tired and lost to appreciate the humor. 

He made to nudge Marcus, guide him toward the wall, but then Marcus did the unfathomable: He swam away from Esca. 

Esca watched in horror, his stomach toppling over. “What—Marcus, you—” 

Marcus didn’t swim far. Once Esca gathered his senses, he kicked at the floor and grabbed Marcus’s tunic, clutching. Marcus’s cold, weak body gave no resistance. 

Hugging Marcus to his chest, Esca gritted his teeth. “You need to rest.” 

He kicked at the floor, slowly bringing them toward the bank, and despite knowing the languid speed brought them closer to the Seal People, Esca feared that the second he let Marcus go, the river would swallow him up and Marcus would be too stubborn and delirious to stop it from happening. 

The first alcove didn’t venture into the earth far enough, but the second mimicked a cave. Esca let the current guide them through, releasing one arm from around Marcus only to grab a root and let it anchor them against the muddy wall. 

The frigid waters licked the nape of his neck, wetting the blond wisps along his hairline. Their silence heightened the racket from the river crashing against mud walls. It chilled him like nothing else. He remembered Marcus struggling up the hill, the violent shivers which broke their pace. Guilt pelted over Esca’s shoulders, for had he not betrayed Marcus’s trust—the trust he had never known he’d possessed and valued until he severed the bond—Marcus would not be near hypothermic and bleeding out in a river. 

Esca did not know what compelled him now, be it the guilt, the aching desire to prove his worth, his loyalty, but Esca knew that no word could be expressed to convey the sorrow and appreciation he held for Marcus. Esca had never been savvy with words. His father had trained him to be a better charioteer to hide the fact that Esca would never liven up an army with a jaunty speech. 

He could not apologize with words. He could not vanquish the Seal People with a chariot. So he did the only thing he could with Marcus so close. 

As they ebbed and buoyed in the river, anchored against the muddy wall only with Esca’s hand, he tightened his grip on Marcus’s tunic, and he kissed him. Clumsily, his mouth bumped against Marcus’s neck, kissing air and forehead knocking the back of Marcus’s head. He pulled Marcus closer and applied so much pressure that the second kiss could be mistaken for nothing else. 

When Marcus didn’t acknowledge it, Esca rested his forehead on him, sighing warm air against Marcus’s damp neck. “We should move,” he said. Water splashed over his face, entering his nostrils, and the burn had him squeezing his eyes in short agony. 

They kicked away from the wall, jostled as the currents swept them downstream. Esca gripped Marcus with two fists as if his very hold would save Marcus from anything in this world. Timidly, Esca thought perhaps this was true. All that kept Marcus safe and alive was him. Certainly Marcus would not survive this river without Esca’s hold. But then the memory of why and how they entered this river assaulted him in waves more tumultuous than the river, and Esca shoved all other thought but avoiding the Seal People out of his mind. 

* * *

Esca could not forget the shock and awe on Marcus’s face once he returned with the Legionaries.

Through every death by his hand in the battle, as the smoke from his father’s dagger and Marcus’s wooden eagle swirled together as one, while they now struggled through the day’s final journey to Legionaries’ tribe, Esca could not forget Marcus’s shock and awe. They had been dredged up by the real sense of betrayal and loss, the stronger belief that Esca would leave Marcus there to die than come back for him. And those seeds of doubt had been planted by Esca. 

Of course, Marcus had grinned and beamed and clapped shoulders with the surviving Legionaries as well when the battle was won and over. The adrenaline of victory and pride stayed with him for some time, but as the Legionaries guided Esca and Marcus to their tribe for a dry place to rest that night, the adrenaline wore off. Marcus’s wound caught up to him, and he slipped over mossy stones, Esca there to catch his fall. 

“Your leg still pains you,” said Esca, grasping his arm and settling his palm along Marcus’s side. “You’re so cold.” 

Fog drifted along hilltops, the orange and yellow grass autumnal and stretching beyond the eye’s vantage point, disappearing into the blankets of mizzle. Rain had long settled, yet it stained Marcus’s clothes with dark spots. A breeze skirted through the woods, and Marcus stiffened against a shiver. 

“We’re no longer running. Let me warm you.” Esca pulled him closer, curling an arm across his back and gripping his shoulder, his ribcage aligned with Marcus’s. As the oncoming fog crept into their humble grouping, and without a flicker of emotion crossing his features, Marcus leaned into him. 

The distance from the Legionaries’ camp felt shorter despite the necessary full day’s march. 

### II

They arrived to near infinite supply of mead in celebration of their victory. Marcus wondered what victory the Britons were celebrating—the survival of their fathers and husbands? The defeat of the Seal People’s mightiest warriors? It was no matter. Everyone was kind, the mead strong and dulling the ache in his leg, outstretched before him as this positioning lessened the pulsating throb. The entire village gathered round a fire, the meager homes with thatched roofs circling it like a miniature forum. Marcus spoke only to the Legionaries, and sometimes the Legionaries acted as a middleman who interpreted conversations between Marcus and the Britons. Esca was off speaking to various elderly folk in the tribe, disappearing for a time and reappearing when Marcus least anticipated it. His front was toasty from the fire, yet frequent chills ran down his spine, the biting cold of night its own burn. Esca’s absence left him vulnerable to the fog’s kiss, his skin cold and clammy.

Marcus had finished off the last of his mead. Flame and moonlight glinted off his empty clay bowl’s concave center moist from the remnants of his mead. Another round was a certain possibility, yet there lurked an unspoken understanding that he had reached the cut off period. Marcus was pondering the burn of alcohol in his throat when Esca returned. 

Slipping into the empty space on Marcus’s log, Esca retrieved a vial from his belt. “This ought to help ease your pain,” said Esca. 

“And yours, too,” said Marcus, glancing at the scabbed over cut along Esca’s arm from one of the warriors at the river. 

Esca regarded his arm, then rolled the vial about in his grasp. His clear eyes were grey in the moonlight, stormy like the seas which took Marcus this far north. When Esca turned his gaze away from his cut and to him, Marcus’s heart battered, and for the life of him, Marcus wished those grey eyes would never part from him. 

“Come on,” said Esca, and for a brief moment, Marcus allowed himself to admire the alluring curl of Esca’s accented Latin. “You’ll feel better in our lodgings.” 

The grey eyes were bewitching. Either that, or the delirium elicited by his aching leg finally ensnared him and robbed him of his sound mind. Marcus set aside his clay bowl. He made to stand, but his wounded leg grew too stiff from the cold, his joints cooperating enough for him to bend his knee and to a stand with great resistance. When the pain roiled through him, eyelids shuttering, a hand skittered across his back, and Esca drew him close. Esca’s scent, the smell of rain soaked earth and leather, gathered round Marcus just like the fog, drowning out all else with a gentle, unassuming presence. 

They bid farewell to their hosts, then made for their lodgings, a humble tent away from the bustling chatter and, less fortunately, the crackling fire. Inside there was a single cot, wolf skin, woven blankets, a plump pillow, and a pile of dry clothes disguising the slight, narrow size of the cot. Nowhere else but the floor could be mistaken for a bed—and Marcus searched hard. There was a stool by a small gathering of embers. Had they been soldiers in the frontier, they could argue it for temporary sleeping quarters. Yet with his aching leg, Marcus could not sleep on it, and after all Esca had endured, he lacked the will nor the desire to even joke about Esca taking up the stool. 

So they had one bed. Marcus wasn’t going to mention it, and Esca merely guided Marcus to the bed, settling him down near the single pillow. In the precious seconds in which Esca could acknowledge their lodging’s limitations, he settled down on one knee, focusing on Marcus’s legs. Marcus grew antsy at the attention toward his wretched leg, the dilemma of beds long forgotten. 

Esca tugged on Marcus’s boot, easing it off. A protest rose up in Marcus—Esca was a freeman, he didn’t need to undress Marcus anymore. Esca glanced up, curling his lip. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. The boot now off, he squeezed Marcus’s foot, nodded slightly when Marcus jumped at the contact. 

“What am I thinking?” 

Esca slipped off the other boot, rubbing Marcus’s toes through the thick, woven socks, and it felt so good, the warmth from Esca’s hand and his own blood heating his cramped, aching toes. “I’m caring for you because I want to, not because of the past,” he said. His thumb now and then skirted over the ball of Marcus’s foot, pressing firm, intoxicating circles over flesh Marcus hadn’t realized ached with fire. “If you want me to stop, tell me, and I will.” 

Marcus ought to tell him that this was more than enough, yet Esca started removing his thick sock, the burn of night cold against his skin swallowed up by the heat of Esca’s palms. Marcus fidgeted on the bed, Esca’s touch feeling entirely too intimate, the nerves of his already hypersensitive foot heightened until Marcus couldn’t bear it.. Esca pressed both thumbs in firm circles along his foot’s weary ball, and Marcus’s mind grew fuzzy, the mead catching up to him, and he became lost in the warmth and relaxation. At his silence, Esca smiled, those storm clouds of eyes peering at him beneath blond eyelashes. Yet in the moment their gazes met, Esca’s smile fell, and he went back to staring with focus at Marcus’s foot. 

Esca continued massaging his foot until Marcus began to slump, and they switched to Marcus laying across the cot, his massaged foot tucked behind Esca’s back while the one belonging to his wounded leg was settled in Esca’s lap, receiving the same intoxicating treatment. It went on for ages, Marcus draping a hand over his eyes for he couldn’t stomach even staring at the ceiling while he felt a heat pour over him, gathering below his navel. Esca had only just become his friend, the imbalance between them lifted in dire straits. Marcus’s cock could settle down. 

Soon Esca tucked Marcus’s leg behind him. His absence left the sole tingling, yet Marcus rejoiced. Perhaps the heat in his belly would quell without the excessive attention. 

Then Esca started tugging on his braccae. 

Marcus slapped his hand onto the bed, hoisting himself up on his elbows. “What are you doing?” 

Esca leaned across his legs, back curved, the sight too appealing with his face so close to his cock. “I can’t dress your wound properly with this on, and it’s wet. I should’ve redressed you when we arrived. You’re already chilled.” Esca stilled, his fingers light over Marcus’s waist, his cock noticing the slightest movement. “Do you want me to stop?” 

“No,” Marcus said, the word flooding out and surprising him. 

“We’ve done this many times in Calleva, but you hesitate now.” 

“We’ve never done this on your own free will.” 

Esca’s gaze drifted, and at such a degree of attention, his cock flinched. “Marcus, I want to help you now. It’s my choice.” 

Marcus swallowed, looking away toward the embers dying out across the room. “All right.” 

Esca slipped off his braccae, gentle and personal, as a body slave typically was, but the knowledge that Esca did this on his own volition heightened his touch for Marcus. Hands massaged Marcus’s legs as Esca went, kneading warmth back into the flesh chilled to the bone. To keep his mind from wandering down treacherous paths, Marcus repeated the ranking order of the cursus honorum. Once he arrived at each rank, he listed out five notable holders of the rank, then recited their list of achievements. He had made it all the way to listing out Caesar’s various campaigns in Gaul, ignoring Esca’s adept, callused hands kneading his thighs, placing on new braccae, then beckoning Marcus to sit so Esca should slip off his tunic, hands tracing warm lines over his arms and shoulders. Esca never touched his chest though Marcus ached for it—he veered off into cataloguing Cicero’s escapades at that point—and fought down a shiver of regret when Esca announced that he was finished redressing Marcus into warmer clothing, his wound inspected and secured in bandages without Marcus realizing it. Esca started changing into dry clothes, and Marcus shut his eyes at the first sight of pale hips. 

Marcus fell back onto to bed, staring firmly at the ceiling, and was glad that the agony was long over—but then, as it seemed this torturous evening wished for it to be prolonged, Esca nudged him to clear a space between himself and the wall. 

“Esca,” he said, strained, “is this truly necessary?” 

“The wall isn’t insulated well. It’s better if my back is to it,” he said, tucking himself along the wall. He curled fingers around Marcus’s wrist. “Come on. We need to keep you warm. You caught a chill in the rain.” 

Marcus hesitated, fighting for a reasonable retort, but a draft fell over him, catching him off guard, and he shuddered against it. 

Esca tugged on his wrist. “Marcus, come on.” 

Succumbed, Marcus settled back into the bed, pliant as Esca grew himself snug along Marcus’s back, and was glad that he was on the outside because that way his hard cock was still secret. He started thinking about his uncle and aunt on their Roman farm kissing, but then he only thought about how he’d like to raise horses with Esca, and his aunt and uncle were long gone from his mind, replaced with an even greater cognizant of his aching cock. Marcus shuddered, thankful for the draft offering him a way to disguise the shudder’s cause. 

Esca hugged him close. Rubbing a hand over Marcus’s chest, Esca said, his breath warm against Marcus’s neck, “Rest. Sleep will do you well.” 

Marcus closed his eyes, seeing the reason, but while Esca massaged his chest, he kept imagining how it’d feel if Esca’s hand wandered lower, grabbing his cock, if he quit using his mouth just for breathing and started kissing Marcus’s neck. 

Groaning, Marcus detangled himself from Esca. “I can’t do this. Let’s just lay side-by-side.” 

“Marcus—” 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. Maybe my head isn’t with me, still lost in the river and ready for battle, but this is too intimate and kind of you for me to handle right now.” 

“What would you prefer?” asked Esca, worriedly. 

Looking down at Esca, his hair mussed from the pillow, his sharp features cast in shadows, those grey eyes slanted with bewilderment, Marcus thought that he must be insane. After all, Esca had tricked him, had him live in that horrendous tribe with the belief that he’d been abandoned, yet he could not help but be humbled at the lengths Esca went to continue their mission, the depths he’d taken their trust, however meager and shallow it’d been at the time before entering the Seal People’s tribe. He wanted to lay with Esca so badly, but this was several degrees of wretched he did not believe even senators were capable of. 

Marcus smiled—small, weary. “I’ve laid down like this with many men, but you are held in a different regard. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but I also don’t want to lie to you.” 

“Because I’m a Briton.” 

“No, because you’re noble, honest, clever, and…” Marcus was so tired. “You’re Esca. You’re dear to me.” 

Esca’s gaze shuttered. He recovered quickly, but Marcus was too trained for battle not to notice it. “I’m not uncomfortable with that.” 

It was not what Marcus would have liked to hear, a resounding, “You’re dear to me, too,” would have been preferable, but he felt less ill at ease over how he was destined to spend the night, so he fell back into bed. After the draft which had chilled him, Marcus felt greedy for Esca’s warmth. Esca wrapped himself around Marcus again, holding him close in an embrace that made Marcus feel safe, yet hollow, in concluding was a brotherly embrace. Knowing where they stood, how the evening had transpired from Esca’s view, let him feel calm, at ease, and able to relax into the warmth, let it milk over his aching body and combat his aching mind for sleep. 

He’d just about fallen asleep and tricked himself in believing these hollow conclusions, when he felt it. 

Esca was hard, too. 

Too tired to think too long on it, Marcus reoriented his perception of Esca’s, “I’m not uncomfortable,” and wished he wasn’t so tired. Otherwise, he’d put an end to this bizarre embrace and just kiss Esca—or at least make sure that was a cock he felt behind him. Unfortunately, slumber found Marcus, and he slept off the remaining aches in his body. 

* * *

In the morning, Marcus observed Esca.

He sat beside Marcus in front of the fire, passing him a cup of cow’s milk and a bowl filled lean meats, vegetables, and warm broth. Marcus noticed his bowl was a bit thicker than Esca’s, and when he mentioned thus to Esca, he received in reply a frown and nudge to his shoulder. 

“Rome wasn’t built in a day, I hear,” said Esca. “And neither will one night get you back into shape.” 

Marcus was undeterred. “But if you fall off your horse from exhaustion, that won’t help me either, will it?” 

Esca didn’t reply, just shifted his bowl closer to Marcus’s, which Marcus accepted as a sure enough victory. He slipped some lean meat and vegetables into Esca’s bowl, taking a congratulatory sip of cow’s milk. 

During the course of their meal, an elderly man walked beside Esca, pausing to chat, and the most curious thing occurred: He tapped Esca on the shoulder, trading a few words between them which sounded friendly, as much as Marcus could tell with the language barrier, and the man gestured to Marcus, patting Esca’s shoulder and grinning slyly. Esca, curiously, shrugged and hid his flushing face by taking a drink of cow’s milk. 

As the man left to secure his own breakfast, Marcus said, “And what was that about?” 

Esca swallowed down the cow’s milk with great effort. “Ah. Nothing. Eat up, you need—” 

“To rest. Gather up my strength. Yes, but that didn’t look like nothing.” 

“He wondered how you two liked the honeymoon suite,” said a Legionary, clapping Marcus on the shoulder from behind. “Good morning, Centurion, Esca.” 

Marcus grinned, yet his voice sounded as baffled as he felt. “Honeymoon suite?” 

But the Legionary had left to gather up his own breakfast, leaving Marcus to turn the question toward Esca. “A honeymoon suite?” asked Marcus. 

Esca set down his cup of cow’s milk by his feet, toying with his spoon. “When I told them I followed you across the wall and continued on with stealing the Eagle... after the Seal People, getting the Legionaries, they didn’t believe we were only...” Esca stared down as his soup. “Only friends. I told them I swore on my father’s dagger, that bonds can be forged in dire straits, but they said that as much as they loved Guern or continue to love the other Legionaries, they wouldn’t have done that for them, not if they had known them for less than a year at least.” 

During his soliloquy, Marcus watched Esca’s features twist and mold, his once elusive countenance having grown quite expressive to Marcus this past year. He’d never seen someone so bitter from calling him a friend while describing their bond to him in such poetics, and recalling Esca’s cock pressed into his back last night, Marcus began to worry that perhaps Esca did feel for him as more than a friend, as more than a bond forged in dire straits, yet did not realize it. 

Marcus contemplated his thoughts before speaking. “When I first saw you, fighting for your life, though I would have denied it at the time, I knew you were to be protected and cherished.” 

Esca stared at his soup. 

“Bonds grow over time. They aren’t to be rushed.” 

“I suspect my friends the herbists would say, ‘No one screams for the life of a near naked man he’s never met.’ ” 

“Your sword was smaller than the other gladiator’s. I don’t think I agree with the herbists.” 

Esca laughed, a sharp rush of air through gritted teeth bared at the corner. He muffled it with a spoonful of soup. 

They continued eating in silence. Birds chirped in the dew cold morning, fog drifting through the little forum. Marcus’s wounded leg still ached, yet it was subdued, weathering the cold rather than falling victim to it. A wind crept over him, heat from the cooking fire washing over him after the wind past. On instinct, Marcus turned his face toward the fire, and out the corner of his eye saw Esca watching. Esca’s eyes quickly averted once he saw that Marcus had caught him staring. 

Marcus went back to his soup, shifting to press his thigh up along Esca’s, and shook his head when he felt Esca press back into him. 

### III

They left the Legionaries’ tribe two horses richer and stomachs full of a hearty meal. Marcus’s leg was strengthened from a fire and blankets in the night.

It should have made Esca happy. They were alive and well. Marcus was in pain, but it was manageable. He no longer had to walk on his wound. But Esca wasn’t happy. As wind blew, the leaves whispered with memories of the Seal People announcing Marcus’s entrance to the official’s tent with scorn and insults. This man who Esca tore earth and flesh to protect had entered wolf’s den after wolf’s den at Esca’s behest. 

Now Marcus was readying his horse, brushing her roan grey fur and dusting off morning dew. Patting her back as he strode behind her, Marcus glanced over at Esca, a sweet smile teasing at the corner of his mouth. Esca nodded, a sharp, angled nod, and Marcus shook his head, laughing. Then he disappeared on the other side of his horse, and Esca didn’t see him again until their horses were saddled, satchels secured into place. 

“We ought to say goodbye before leaving,” said Marcus, surprising Esca as he came from behind. 

Esca patted his horse’s neck, silent. 

“Esca,” said Marcus, and when Esca continued glaring at his horse, Marcus patted his shoulder, squeezing. He didn’t speak until Esca turned to look at him, those kind green eyes pale and wholesome in the light of dawn. “Are you well? You’re more solemn than usual.” 

“I’m fine.” Yet the question left him feeling vulnerable, and he might have leaned into the warmth of Marcus’s grasp on his shoulder. Clearing his throat, Esca snatched his horse’s brush and strode away. “Let’s say our farewells.” 

As he stormed off, he felt the weight of Marcus’s stare, and for all his losses and stolen honor as a slave, he had never felt so exposed. 

* * *

They rode a few hours until the sunset, long enough for them to have only two days of travel left until reaching the wall and a decent time for them to set up camp and find scraps of food to roast and eat before twilight made it impossible to see through the thick fog. Marcus tended to the horses and set up their blankets while Esca gutted and skinned a rabbit at the riverbank. When Esca returned to the fire with the rabbit and himself cleaned, Marcus was sitting on a log opposite him.

“You’re awfully good at hunting,” said Marcus, whittling down a stake for roasting the rabbit. “If I hadn’t known you, I’d mistake you for the best chef in all of Britain.” 

“Just Britain? Is my gruel not good enough for Rome?” 

Marcus chuckled, biting his lip to smother it. “Were you a cook in the army, I’d have to fight everyone in the fort just to be around you long enough to compliment you myself.” 

“You’d have to go to the baths first,” said Esca. “I don’t want a soldier filthy from exercising and patrolling to track dirt into my kitchen.” 

“I’d have known this, of course. Not only does the chef’s food fascinate me, but so does the mind who conjured up the inventive ideas for making gruel taste like honey.” 

Esca hummed. “It makes sense why all the Roman soldiers would love me. Rome lacks the imagination of adding a splash of salt to their oats.” 

Marcus laughed, sharp and sudden. Esca looked at him on reflex, breath caught as Marcus threw his head back, the length of his throat exposed, shadows where there were sharp angles. 

Esca swallowed, then went to tend the fire. “Is the food really that bad?” 

Marcus settled down, laughter muffled but still there, and reached out to pass Esca the whittled stick. “It really is. Do you remember the rat we ate the other night?” 

Esca couldn’t forget it, no matter how hard he tried. He nodded. 

“It tasted much better, if anything because of the novelty.” 

Esca snickered, then secured the rabbit on the whittled stick and set it on the forked sticks beside the fire, positioning it so it cooked slow. “You poor sods.” 

“Yeah,” murmured Marcus. “But I have to correct you. Of course, most soldiers would love just your cooking, but I know at least one would love you for more than that.” 

Esca froze, fingers getting toasty from lingering around the fire too long. 

Across the fire, Marcus directed a harrowed, open look his way, and Esca forgot all about the warmth licking at his hand. “I, for one, would be glad to thank you for your service, but after meeting you, I’d forget all about that and die from thirst if I did not learn your name.” 

Esca’s skin prickled with need and fear. He felt as if his hand were becoming burned, even while he knew this to not be true. He sprung away from his log to escape the heat, going a pace away from the fire and toward the surrounding copse. At the grimace that marred Marcus’s welcoming, loving countenance, Esca backed away toward the trees, slowly taking steps backward, absentminded as he gathered his wits. “Marcus—I appreciate the thought, but…” 

Marcus smiled, but dropped it quickly, as well as his gaze, which grew bewitched by the roasting rabbit. “Don’t feel obliged to apologize. Forget I mentioned it.” 

Observing Marcus then, the blatant disappointment, the loss of joy that once shone in his eyes, Esca felt torn between two agonies: Atoning for his betrayal and preventing Marcus further distress. Then he just felt ashamed. 

“I don’t feel obliged and I don’t want to forget it,” said Esca, and promptly fell under Marcus’s penetrative stare. “Not when I feel the same for you.” 

When Marcus rose to a stand, Esca continued stepping backward. Soon Marcus caught up with him, murmuring, “Esca, it’s all right,” but Esca didn’t deserve to hear it. He didn’t deserve the warmth in Marcus’s gaze directed right at him. Not when he’d committed so many vile acts in the past days. Marcus walked alongside him among the trees, murmuring more sweet words, and Esca couldn’t take it, both in his heart and his body. He grabbed Marcus’s wrist, with the goal of halting him and silencing him, but then Marcus tugged on his wrist, pulling Esca flushed against his chest, and leaned against a tree, embracing Esca with hands low in his back, and kissed him. 

It was a sweet kiss. Marcus’s warm touch at the dip of his spine just before his hip, the graze of teeth as Marcus eased his way into Esca’s mouth, the tiny laugh against his lips as Esca fought against Marcus for control, forcing himself first into Marcus’s mouth, yet melting all the same against him as Marcus dragged a nail over his back, the feel of Marcus’s lips pulled taut into a smile. 

Esca broke away. 

It was all too kind, Marcus allowing Esca this precious moment. All too kind to provide Esca an opportunity for something precious that he didn’t deserve. Besides, Esca just kissed a Roman. He ought to run away in the night, let darkness broken only by the stars cloak him under the shadows of shame. 

Marcus rubbed the tip of his nose against Esca’s, so intimate it jarred Esca into looking at him. Those green eyes were smiling at him. 

“What’s troubling you, my Esca?” 

He locked his jaw, yet refused to look away, not that he could ever feel compelled to look away from those handsome eyes. 

When Marcus rubbed noses again, his smile morphing into a grin, Esca could not remain silent any longer. “I wronged you,” he said, and a dam burst within him. Now that he had started to speak the thoughts eating him up all day, he found he couldn’t stop for all the coin and cattle in the world. “They abused you, and I did nothing to stop it. I encouraged it.” 

The smile was gone from those handsome green eyes. “It was necessary.” 

“It was wrong.” 

“We are warriors,” said Marcus. He traced along the curves of Esca’s cheekbones, and Esca could not recall when Marcus first touched his face, yet the slow lines were comforting, and the warmth of Marcus’s forearms along his neck intoxicating. Esca listened as Marcus spoke, enraptured. “Sometimes, we must act quickly. Do what must be done, and for those left in the dark, they sense when a play has been made, and carry it out.” 

“You speak with the wisdom of someone looking back on it.” 

Marcus chuckled. “True, but I don’t hold any grudges.” 

A trickle of nerves shot through Esca, his body shivered all throughout for a second. He gazed into those handsome green eyes, watching for every slight movement in Marcus’s gaze, memorizing the shadows on the valleys between his nose and eyes as light scattered against his sun kissed skin. Marcus held no grudge against him. Through no plea, Esca had been granted Marcus’s forgiveness, a gift he did not deserve. He had no proof of Marcus’s sincerity other than the existence of his words. He had no reason to believe Marcus other than the desperate hope that Marcus would never lie to him, a hope which evolved into the truest knowledge. 

Overwhelmed and at a loss, Esca kissed him, pressing against Marcus’s chest and forcing his back further against the tree, leaning his full weight into him, surrendering into the kiss, and minding the wounded leg. Marcus grinned against his lips. 

When the words came to him at last, Esca broke away, a bit dizzy, and his countenance stayed solemn even while Marcus blinked lazily at him. “I will never betray you again.” 

“I know.” 

His heart pattered wildly, and not knowing quite how to respond to that, Esca buried fingers into his hair and gripped his hip, kissing him so hard their teeth clattered. 

“Ah!” Marcus yelped, pulling away. 

Esca’s heart leapt to his throat. “I hurt you.” 

“No, it’s just some branch.” Marcus reached behind him, patting along his tunic. He peered into Esca’s eyes all the while, smiling, but then his gaze skittered behind Esca. Marcus seethed. “Damn, I spooked the horses.” 

Esca smiled. “They’ll settle. They’re hardy.” 

Marcus brushed his lips over Esca’s. “Can I trust your word?” said Marcus, then he kissed Esca, a slow, lazy press, his hand gentle on Esca’s cheek. Parting, Marcus murmured, “Yes, I believe I can trust you.” 

They kissed slow, deep. Esca moved to pepper kisses along Marcus’s jaw once he grew parched for breath, sucking on Marcus’s neck by his ear, his throat. Marcus moaned lowly, fidgeting, and Esca held him still by seizing his chin and tilting his head to the side, his neck taut and exposed. Esca bit and kissed, grinning as he felt Marcus grow hard beneath him. 

Esca dragged his nails down from Marcus’s chest to his hip, fussing with his tunic and slipping a hand beneath it, fingertips caressing hard, firm muscles. Marcus then kissed Esca. The kisses grew more fervent than the last, his hands coming to hold Esca’s face along his jaw, fingers curling and scratching behind his ears. Esca traced around his muscles and skirted the more sensitive navel, lingering there by drawing slow circles when Marcus responded with biting his lips then commanding Esca’s mouth open with his tongue, nails digging into Esca’s scalp. 

Mischievous, Esca tore away, smirking at the wounded noise Marcus made. “I care about you a great deal,” he said, slowly, drawing it out. 

Marcus groaned, reaching for Esca’s lips yet only meeting air, and he groaned again. “Mithras, Lugh, Caesar, whoever,” he said, forehead falling to rest on Esca, “witness me as I say, _I know_.” 

Smirking, Esca scratched aching lines over Marcus’s abdomen and kissed him once more.


End file.
